Down to a Pseudoscience
by Stitchpunk
Summary: When Shawn is shot, it's up to the detectives at the SBPD to find out what happened. Who would be out for a simple psychic, and why target this one?
1. In the Beginning

Carlton looked up to find Shawn Spencer walking into the station. He sighed heavily and looked back down to his desk, shuffling through a mound of papers for the file on the McLeary case he'd been neglecting. He went on for a few more seconds but something just felt off; he couldn't concentrate. He looked back up, wondering why Spencer hadn't begun screaming yet.

The brightly clothed man looked more confused than Lassiter felt. He was holding his jacket tightly over one arm, his shoulder a bit hunched as the fabric was falling off. He seemed to be mumbling something to himself and taking small steps, or really just shifting his weight.

Carlton huffed and walked over. If he needed someone to talk to him first to get his little charade done with, it may as well be him.

"Excuse me, what are you doing here? You case is closed, Spencer," the detective said with crossed arms, pausing when Shawn didn't start shouting nonsense and flailing. In fact, now that he was closer, it even seemed as if Spencer was shivering.

"I... uh... s-something..." Shawn mumbled slowly. His voice was soft, as if he couldn't catch his breath, but he wasn't panting. Carlton's glare turned to a concerned frown and he uncrossed his arms, evening his weight as he stepped forward a bit more. There were beads of sweat around the other man's brow, but he seemed too pale to have a fever.

"Spencer? Did you take something?" he asked and reached one hand out to the wavering man in case he decided to finally tip over. Looking over the bright clothes again, he noticed a strange shadow coming from under the jacket, absently noting how it was an oddly mismatched coat to wear with this particular ensemble given the psychic's usual tastes.

Then he realized that it wasn't a shadow and that the clothes weren't very bright at all. In fact, all the color seemed to be radiating from around the area that Spencer's hand was gripping.

"Oh my god-Ambulance! We need an ambulance over here!" Carlton shouted as he rushed to Spencer's side, grasping his good arm and putting an arm around his back as he lowered him to the floor. He laid him out on the hall floor and removed his hand from his jacket to inspect the extent of the wound. Spencer still hadn't spoken and his glassy eyes were getting slower and slower to reopen when he had the mind to blink.

"Carlton, what's going on?" Juliet asked as she dropped the stack of manila folders in her arms and rushed over to help him situate Shawn.

"No idea. He just walked in here like this." Lassiter informed her of what he knew, which wasn't a whole hell of a lot. "Where is that ambulance, people?" he shouted and looked up to find three different security guards all on phones and describing the situation. Juliet was stroking Spencer's forehead when he looked back down, and the sweaty hair was sticking to his forehead. He gently moved the sticky jeans jacket from the area and found that the red area was darker than he'd thought. He must have been shot a while ago because the blood was already beginning to coagulate and, upon closer inspection, Carlton found that it was a gunshot wound to his upper arm just past where he was comfortable removing the sleeve to in case he should complicate the injury. He'd have taken the time to be relieved it wasn't a chest wound if it weren't for the plethora of blood still leaking out.

Before he could get a closer look, the detective was yanked back and an EMT took his place, the same thing happening to Juliet. The two partners watched in shock as Spencer was loaded onto a stretcher and wheeled outside into an ambulance. Lassiter had no recollection of following them, but suddenly found himself in his car, struggling to get the keys in the ignition. He heard a familiar sound and looked over, identifying it as Juliet talking on her phone before he finally jammed his key in and started the car, tearing out after the ambulance.

They arrived at the hospital, thankfully in one piece seeing how Lassiter had been driving, and waited far too long to get from the waiting room to Shawn's side.

"I-I don't know..." Shawn stuttered as he tried to describe what had happened. "I think it was a drive-by or something... I can't really... It was really sudden, I think," he stammered, his face screwed up in concentration.

"Can you describe what you were doing before it happened?" a detective other than Carlton or Juliet questioned as the two sat in the chairs by the bed silently.

"Uhm...I swung by the Dunkin' Donuts and picked up some breakfast for me and Gus... there were fifteen hats that morning, and two caps...and then I drove to the office and I hit seven red lights, which is two more than usual because I took forty-three more seconds than usual in the line...and then I set the bags down on the desk and the coffee dripped on the green placemat because I set the cup on the wire for the lamp, and I had to wipe it up really quick before I got electrocuted...and then I hung up my jacket, but I missed the hook so I leaned down to pick it up and when I stood back up I heard the window break.

"It was really loud and I felt something kinda pinch me and I had to step back a little for some reason... and then I looked down and everything went kinda dark, but I noticed I was bleeding. So I thought I should go to see Lassie and Jules, because Gus wasn't there yet, and tell them what happened. But then I forgot what I was gonna say when I got there," he rambled on and on as the detective wrote everything down and left. The psychic was incredibly drugged and speaking with a strong slur, but at least he wasn't gritting his teeth in pain and writhing around so much that he pulled out half his stitches anymore.

Shawn had spent two hours in surgery as they made sure all the fragments were out of him, and neither Carlton or Juliet had been able to contact Gus or his father. The bullet had made it out through his back of his arm for the most part, but it had nicked his artery as well as the bone, and a few pieces had chipped off and lodged in the muscle.

"Shawn! What happened?" Burton Guster shouted as he ran into the room, his coat and briefcase clattering to the floor as he rushed over to the bed.

"Dude! Where the hell were you? Look, it's dark outside already!" Shawn reprimanded as he pointed to his evidence.

"Shawn, that's a painting of the beach. At midday! What happened?" Gus demanded in his business voice.

"He was shot this morning around eight am. As of yet there is no suspect, no motive, and no evidence besides what they found inside the wound," Carlton answered for Spencer as the psychic's head swiveled over to face him, a lopsided grin crossing over his drugged visage.

"Oh, yeah! Hey, Lassie! You're gonna be so proud!" he exclaimed goofily as he pointed with his good arm to the plastic bag of his ruined clothes at the foot of the bed.

"What, Spencer?" Carlton inquired, though his tone had less bite than usual.

"Yeah! I, uhm, I remembered to grab the bullet, 'cause I thought you might want it. It made a huge dent in the wall, Gus. I think we might have to pay for it. Uhm, it's in my pocket of my jacket 'cause it was too hot to hold onto for very long..." came Shawn's drunken-like exclamation.

"You what?" Lassiter hissed, grabbing for the bag of personal belongings. Sure enough, the item was exactly where it had been described to be. The detective hastily wrapped the bullet in a spare rubber glove from his pocket and rushed out the door.

Not ten minutes later, Henry practically sprinted into the room.

"What the hell happened, Shawn? I get back from my trip and I have thirty missed calls and three messages from three different people telling me to get my ass over to the hospital!" he demanded, out of breath. His son grinned at him with a stupidly goofy expression and he raised his hand to his forehead with a sigh. At least Shawn was still well enough to be annoying.

"He was shot this morning. So far we've gotten out of him that he was less than a minute late to his office, a bunch of people were wearing hats, there was a drive-by, and he managed to dig the bullet out of the wall before walking to the station," Juliet supplied quickly for both of the two newcomers' sakes.

"Who's working the case?" Henry asked urgently.

"So far Buzz and his partner are on it, but Lassiter and I are going to start working it as well. We just wanted to make sure Shawn didn't wake up to an empty room," Juliet answered before frowning a little at the two. "Just where were you, by the way?" she asked, trying not to be accusing.

"I was at work! Shawn called me sixty-seven times yesterday, so I turned my phone off this morning," Gus quickly excused.

"On an all-nighter, a fishing trip which I've been planning for three weeks. Of course he goes and pulls this now. I've got three foot-and-a-half biters sitting in my boat rotting their little brains out all over my deck," Henry grumbled as he frowned at his son. At the look on the kid's face though, his expression softened. He walked up to the head of the bed and leaned over to press a kiss onto his son's disgustingly sweaty forehead before ruffling his hair. "I'm glad you're okay, Shawn," he said softly.

"Awww...ILU too, Daddy," his son said back to him as his melted grin returned with no pause. The father sighed and rolled his eyes at the ceiling.

"What exactly do they have him on?" Gus inquired, looking over the various IV bags hooked up to his best friend. He raised his eyebrows and nodded to himself. "Now that's what I call service," was all he said.

"They're putting the bullet through the system to see if any matches can be made," Lassiter stated as he walked back into the room empty-handed. "They say it'll be at least a few days until Spencer is out of here. Come on-we need to go make sure Buzz isn't messing this up too bad," he said to Juliet, waving her out with him and leaving Henry and Gus alone in the room with the injured psychic.


	2. there was hope for the future

The man sat at the window of his apartment, looking out on the city, though mostly focusing on the building across the street from his, where he could see into the rooms. There was a woman comforting her baby-_Hush, now, honey. Just please stop crying. I can't take this anymore. God I need sleep._-a man watching television-_God, this is a waste of time. I've seen this three times already. Maybe I should make a sandwich. I wish she hadn't left me. How could I be so stupid?_-and a teen with a cold playing video games-_Yes. Yes. Yes. Get it. Got it. Come on, man, you can do this. Just one more XP level and you're there. Come on. Come ooooonnnn..._

It was horrible, hearing all these things. Sure they weren't enormously terrible or painful thoughts, but the fact that he couldn't get rid of them was irritating to no end.

How could anyone want this? How could they think this was anything worth having? The price he paid every day for this so-called gift was almost more than he could take sometimes. Even in his sleep, he still heard the voices of those surrounding him. It was hell-tedious and constant. Sure, it came in handy sometimes, but what didn't? It was just the times when he didn't _want_ it.

It had been nice at first. He could hear the things that most people wished they could. Dates became easier, his workday went more smoothly, interacting with anyone at all was made simple. But it had gone downhill quickly. Hearing all these thoughts-he couldn't handle it these days. It had become nothing more or less than a curse. The thoughts grew inside him, becoming louder and louder. Eventually he couldn't block them out. He could hear more and more people at a time. Before it was just one or two, and only when he wanted it, but this was becoming unbearable. Once he'd counted forty-two voices. Forty-two. All in his head and practically screaming to be heard over one another.

He sighed and put his hand to his forehead, leaning over his knees on his cot. He'd lost everything-his job, his girlfriend, his entire _life_. Even his family didn't want to be around him anymore. Not that he minded. Going out in public was torture, but being locked in the same room with anyone was a pure mind-boggling mess.

People didn't understand when he tried to tell them what was going on. They told him to go see a doctor, take some medicine. Well, he'd tried that. All it had done was give him side effects past the bank that left him sicker than a dog. Nothing helped him. Not antipsychotics, not antidepressants, not mood stabilizers. Which meant it could be only one thing. Real. This was real. And there was nothing he or anyone could do about it.

But he could help others. He could put them out of their misery. If someone worked so hard to have this gift only to find that it ruined their life, then what could they do but sink to a level not unlike his? But he couldn't do it. Not to himself. He'd thought about it. He'd set up a noose in his closet. He'd bought a gun and loaded it with bullets. He'd gotten a bottle of Tylenol and a razor and filled the tub with hot water. But he couldn't do it.

The only thing left for him was to help others. Help them get away from this.

But why would they do this to themselves? He knew that not all of them were real, and he stayed away from those who faked this sort of life for money. They were just trying to get by-offering people comfort when their loved ones died or when they needed to find something in their lives. But he'd found one. One like him. One in pain.

He could feel death.

If he thought his own life was painful, he dared not think about this man's. This Shawn Spencer.

He'd watched him from afar; followed him to crime scenes. This man was in terrible pain, and it was mocked by the others. Just like him, they thought him insane. It must have been so painful for him. So he decided he would help him out. He would end this horrible misery. No one would ask for this knowing what they were getting themselves into.

But he knew. Mr Spencer _hadn't_ asked for this. His father had forced him, coerced him, put him through this even as a child. He'd heard their arguments, seen the way they acted around each other. Poor Shawn was forced into a life of pain and insanity by this horrible monster who had twisted his mind into that of a Psychic.

At least the poor boy had someone to depend on-a man named Burton Guster-unlike him. He had no one. But he could see-Guster was tiring of Shawn. He was beginning to ignore him. Why, even when Shawn had been in the hospital from the attempt he'd made on his life, his supposed _best friend_ still hadn't come to see him for almost four hours, and his father the same.

But poor Shawn's mind was overbearing. He couldn't meet with him to tell him about what he was trying to do for him. Even standing across the street from him was almost overpowering to his own mind. The man was screaming inside-begging for him to end this pain, pleading for anyone to help him.

And he would do it for him. He would end all of this. Just like him, Shawn couldn't do it on his own. It would have to be him. He may go to jail, and he may end up worse off than he was now, but he would go on knowing that he'd helped this one man find peace.


End file.
